


It's the wine

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bodyswap, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dress Up, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feel-good, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Romance, Scratching, Smut, Top Crowley (Good Omens), a lot of feelings, more like feelings with porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-12 12:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19571755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: On a drunken night, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to have some fun switching bodies and playing dress up. Side effects might include: seeing yourself in a new light, seeing your lover in a new light, generating a lot of general confusion, enjoying yourself a little bit too much.





	It's the wine

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS.

A stark naked demon is reflected in the big mirror of the bedroom. He’s looking at himself with wide eyes, fascinated. His gaze starts at the mouth; he runs the tip of a finger along the edge of his upper teeth. He turns a little bit, enough to see his left ear, the side of his neck, detecting the pulse under his jawline. He grits his teeth to see the muscles in his neck contract.

His shoulders are pointy, well defined. He has a bit of ginger fuzz in the middle of his chest, then a slim waist, some muscle showing underneath the skin. He’s not heavily built; he’s all slender limbs and sharp lines. The red hair starts again right below his belly button. It trails down, guiding his gaze between his legs.

He puts his hand on his hips, notices his cock is already half-hard. His long, thin fingers twitch at the sight. He arches his back, considers his ass with the utmost attention. That too is small, round and firm.

“You’re so…” There’s a bit of a slur to his words. He absent-mindedly massages his knuckles as he tries to think of a suitable word. “Splendid.”

“Thanks.” Replies an angel that looks like Aziraphale, fully clothed, sitting on the bed behind him.

It’s always Aziraphale that has the more perverted ideas. If he had to guess, Crowley would say that millennia of restraining yourself will do that to you. Repression is a _hell_ of a thing.

In a sense, he knew long ago that his angel was a bit of a freak. There are things you don’t say out loud that show anyway. Completely non-sexual clues that people can pick up on.

It had started long before he had ever touched him, long before he was even ready to admit he wanted to be touched. Aziraphale had always wondered what the demon could do with that mouth. Was it the way he pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek when he was annoyed? Was it something about the way he walked? Something about the way he rolled his letters? The way he dressed? The way he protruded his lips when he was lost in thought? The angel couldn’t tell how he knew. But he could have made an educated guess that his demon sucked cock with a certain competence. In the same way, Crowley was aware Aziraphale was one to enjoy things deeply and thoroughly. He'd try new experiences, he'd come back time and again to the ones he found most satisfactory. A complete hedonist – once he was free from outside conditioning.

So, he wasn’t surprised when the angel proposed they switched bodies, this time just to have fun with it. It helps that they’re both on the drunk side of buzzed. It’s not their fault, really – it’s a cold-as-a-witch’s-teat night, and they decided to warm up with a bit of wine. So it’s the wine. It was very good, something stolen from God knows what time of history. And it was preserved for an occasion such as this one. The kind of wine that goes down easy like water, the kind that doesn’t let you realize you’re drunk. At some point you’ll be on the floor, laughing because your shoe is untied, and isn't that just the funniest thing?

The first time around, they didn’t get to do anything fun in each other’s body. They were both worried, exhausted, and quite uncomfortable. This time… well. Crowley is a demon with the rare gift of imagination. He can picture where this will lead.

Aziraphale runs a hand through the ginger hair on his (not his) head, trying to pull it back.

“Don’t do that,” Crowley, in the angel’s body, shouts from behind him. “You’ll ruin it.”

Aziraphale gives him a devilish smile, and Crowley is impressed at what his own face can do.

“You know what, Crowley,” he spins around, almost knocking down the mirror in the process, “I’ve always wondered what you would look like. Dressed as a— dressed as a normal person.”

“What d’you mean a normal person? I dress very well.”

Aziraphale shakes his head (well, Crowley’s head) and laughs. “No, no. Here, I’ll…”

With a blink, he’s miracled a boxy off-white shirt. It's not even close to the fashion-aware style Crowley loves to keep. This is a normal, classical cut shirt.

“ _Pffft._ That looks ridiculous.” Crowley waves a hand in the air, swatting away at the angel’s bad idea.

“Does not. It’s very nice.” He stares at the demon’s lanky legs. It takes him a few seconds, but he manages to miracle a pair of corduroy beige pants.

“Cor— cor— cor—” nope, Crowley can’t pronounce corduroy right now. “ _Those_ pants! No! Awful.”

“Huh uh,” protests Aziraphale, “They go perfectly well with this shirt. Also.”

He disappears for a moment in the other room, comes back with his reading glasses on Crowley’s nose.

“Now that’s just ludicrous.” Despite himself, the demon’s laughing. Must be the wine.

Aziraphale is not quite done. He keeps staring at the spiky hair sticking up, gently pulling on it. “One last thing…” A second later, Crowley’s head has long strands of straight ginger hair. It’s pulled back in a low ponytail, but it’s shorter on the front, escaping the elastic. It frames his face, softening the sharp edges of his cheekbones.

If he were honest with himself – Aziraphale has never been, is not going to start now – he'd admit why he chose a ponytail. It's not just because it’s tidier this way. He did also because he can picture himself pulling on it, Crowley’s back arching arch as he does.

Great, now he is actually getting hard. Thank God for the pants, they help dissimulate a little bit.

Crowley is stunned. Somehow, Aziraphale has managed to stick his _friendly bookish librarian_ aesthetic to him. It’s not that he looks bad, not at all. It’s just so not _him_. He used to be a big black scary serpent, not a cute baby sparrow.

"That's how you want to play it, angel?" Well, well, well. Two can play this game. He miracles a bottle of pitch black nail polish.

“Nooooooo…” whines Aziraphale, stumbling towards the bed.

“You stay right there, or I’ll dress you like the blasted Easter bunny.” Aziraphale stops dead, but frowns deeply.

Crowley applies nail polish to the angel’s hands. He doesn’t do the best job, but he got his point across. Then he stands up, butting Aziraphale out of the way, as he approaches the mirror. Suddenly, there’s a black eye pencil in his hand.

“Nooo…” protests Aziraphale, feebly.

“Easter bunny.” Crowley mutters to make him stop. Then, he applies the black pencil to Aziraphale’s eyes’ waterline. “Hm. This really does bring out your eyes.”

Aziraphale scowls at him.

Next, Crowley ruffles his blond curls, tugging them towards his forehead. He adds a bit of a stubble on his soft cheeks. The white-gold hair is very subtle, but it makes a big difference.

“That looks… out of place.” Comments the angel.

“I’m not done.” Crowley gets his phone and starts flipping through some pictures. “Ah, this’ll do.”

With a snap of his fingers, the body of Aziraphale is now dressed in a fitted, modern Dior suit. It’s a beautiful, deep teal colour, with a black shirt underneath.

“Oh _yes_.” Crowley gives Aziraphale’s reflection a rare open smile. “Yes! That’s it!”

“Oh.” Aziraphale comments, unable to say much else. “Oh my.”

The end result is very much not his style. This is… sexy. Not vulgar in any way, but definitely sexy. If he weren’t drunk, he would bite his tongue, but since he is…

“I think it’s the first time I understand why you’d want to… with me.” It’s not his physical form that is a problem – he could change that at any time. He just doesn’t see himself emanating sex appeal, unlike a certain serpent he knows.

Crowley is so close so fast; Aziraphale doesn’t have time to flinch. He puts both hands on Aziraphale’s— well, on his own face, which is currently being inhabited by Aziraphale. He presses their foreheads together, not without some anger.

"You're _so_ stupid. You're so clever and yet so, so stupid."

Aziraphale has heard that one before, and smiles with Crowley’s mouth. Without stopping to think about it, Crowley kisses him. At first, he’s just pressing their lips together. A shiver runs down his spine as he realizes how it’s the same but also completely different from usual. Then he deepens the kiss, encouraged by the small noise the angel rewards him with.

It’s so strange and yet so interesting. When they part, Crowley’s cheeks are sporting a lovely shade of red. Aziraphale’s typical hesitant expression is painted on the demon’s features.

“This is quite peculiar.” Says the angel, then sticks out Crowley’s weird tongue, testing it, bending it towards the tip of his nose. “How does this w—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Crowley is kissing him again with his own mouth, and, wow. Could there be anything stranger than this? It’s not… bad. No, it’s not, Aziraphale is quite sure. But it’s also not something he would do if he wasn’t drunk enough for it.

There is an established pattern between them. The pattern works like this: Aziraphale is the one who decides what to do, and when. Crowley is generally game for anything. Aziraphale starts things, but doesn’t finish them. Crowley steps in; eager to prove to his angel he can take care of business, and take care of him by extension. Aziraphale is grateful, Crowley feels fulfilled, and everyone is happy.

This time is no different. Aziraphale had the idea, he was the one lighting the fuse. Then it’ll be Crowley, as usual, to pick up the bomb and deal with it.

He sits on the bed, tugging the angel towards him. It’s the wine, or it’s the bizarre feeling of experiencing reality through Aziraphale’s body. Or it’s the even stranger feeling of touching himself through the angel’s hands and lips. Whatever it is, he has to do something about it, right now. His head is spinning, his heart is beating fast. And the elegant pants he’s miracled on Aziraphale’s body are suddenly too tight.

So he stops the angel when he’s standing right in front of him. He undoes (not without some trouble) the button and fly of his corduroy pants.

For a split second, Aziraphale manages to show an expression of surprise on Crowley’s face. “Crowley…”

The demon notes, with interest, that it’s not a _no_. Sometimes, as he very well knows, his angel needs a second before taking a decision. It’s slippery ground. Crowley can navigate it so well only because they’ve known each other for six millennia. He’s spent so long studying the angel, wanting him, picking up on what he does and doesn’t like. Patiently and silently waiting at his side for any sign of thawing. He has reiterated, again and again, his willingness, his openness to take things to the next level. But he never pushed for it.

Now that the angel has finally let himself love him, he’ll make him his time and time again, in a million different ways. Any time Aziraphale wants him, that is.

“I’m game if you are.”

Aziraphale’s breaths are coming quicker and faster now. His cock is exposed and throbbing. He swallows, nods, then puts a hand on the demon’s head (which is his own head, actually), leaning closer.

It’s the wine and it isn’t, and this feels like a dream. Everything is out of place. The clothes they’re wearing, the bodies they inhabit. At the same time, it’s unquestionably perfect.

“I’m going to try something.” Crowley warns him, even though it was already obvious what his intentions were. Slowly, carefully, he takes him into his mouth, even though the mouth isn’t really his own to begin with.

Aziraphale finds out several things in that moment.

First, he finds out that Crowley’s tongue might be peculiar, but the demon’s skill is his own merit. Using Aziraphale’s mouth, he is no less adept at this.

Second, he finds out that this body he’s inhabiting responds in its own way to Crowley’s touch. It likes different things. This is such precious knowledge. He’ll make sure to use it in the future.

Third, and this is actually a query, how can it be so jarring and yet so arousing to see his own face sucking Crowley’s cock?

His fingers stumble blindly to feel silky curls. He reaches down to run his thumb over the new golden stubble – he doesn’t mind it, all in all – stops at the corner of his open lips.

He’s not sure anymore what’s his and what’s Crowley’s, where he stops and the other begins. He tells himself it’s the wine. They are still an angel and a demon. They are on the same side, and love each other very much, but… there’s no way they could be one and the same. Or is there?

As always, this is the act of service Crowley enjoys the most. This time, though, there’s quite some novelty to it. He had never heard his own voice moaning like Aziraphale. How _interesting_. It’s very clear to him that they need to do this more often. This particular situation requires much more study and time. His smart, lovely angel, he always has the best ideas.

He applies himself to the task at hand with a will. He presses his tongue against underside of his cock, squeezing it with just enough force against the roof of his mouth. Well, of course the tongue and the mouth are actually Aziraphale’s. This is getting quite confusing. He enjoys it very much.

His hand grips Aziraphale’s (Crowley’s) ass, pulling him closer, encouraging him to thrust in.

Aziraphale is glad Crowley is holding him close. He willingly relinquishes control of the situation to his lover, because he’s not at all sure of what’s going on. He just knows that this – this thing they’re doing, whatever it should be called, feels sinfully good.

He slaps a hand over his (Crowley’s) mouth, trying to swallow back the moans escaping his lips. But the demon is only encouraged by this attempt. He relaxes his (Aziraphale’s) throat and takes him in even farther. The angel finally lets go completely, not trying anymore to silence his own sounds, not trying anymore to keep still and quiet. The warm, wet mouth taking him in is all he can think about, and he moves in time with it, harder and faster with every push.

When he comes, Crowley closes his eyes, his entire attention on his lover, guiding him along until the waves of his orgasm quiet down and die. Aziraphale drops on the bed next to him, spent, and raises a hand, silently asking him to switch back.

Crowley obliges.

So there’s an angel and a demon lying on their bed, next to each other. Now everyone is in the right body, but neither of them chose to get rid of the new clothes just yet. The angel is trying to catch his breath, the expensive fabric tight on his burning skin. The demon, next to him, is taking off the silly glasses, removing the elastic keeping his hair tied. He smiles at his lover, radiant, positively proud of what he’s just done. He could do this another million times. He’ll do it until the earth is destroyed and time doesn’t exist anymore if he’ll be allowed to.

And, God help him, his angel is so beautiful. It’s not the clothes or the make-up (though they suit him), he always is. Particularly when he’s disheveled, unraveled, and Crowley knows he’s the one to blame for that.

When he thinks his heart has quieted down, Aziraphale turns to Crowley, and is stunned at the sight. Maybe it’s the cerulean sheets they’re lying on, or the long strands of ginger hair all around the demon’s head. Maybe it’s the white shirt, or the smile on his face – the smile that belongs only to someone who’s intensely in love. Maybe it's an echo from a moment in time long, long ago. Maybe it’s the wine? It’s definitely the wine. But Aziraphale can now clearly see how Crowley was an angel once. And my, what a gorgeous angel he must have been.

“You alright?” The demon asks him, softly, and Aziraphale reminds himself enough to nod. Crowley gives him a crooked grin. “Great. I’m not done with you.”

Sometimes, when they’re in the Bentley and Crowley stomps his foot on the gas, Aziraphale gives a little yelp. He gives the same yelp now, as the demon straddles him, a big smirk on his face.

“I say we take these off now.” He undoes only the top button on his own shirt, just enough for his head to fit, and pulls it up and out of the way in one smooth motion. Not so smoothly, he starts working on the fastidious tiny buttons on Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Please, be careful.” Under him, Aziraphale is enveloped in a sea of red hair. He can’t say he minds – he’s the one who made it look like that. He was sure his demon would look lovely, and he was right. Longer hair has always looked great on Crowley. Anything has always looked great on Crowley. “I want to use this again.”

The demon is taken aback. He would have thought something this dark and tight would have found no place in Aziraphale’s closet. He’s a bit touched.

It is most definitely the wine that slows down his fingers. After a lot of fumbling, he’s managed to open Aziraphale’s shirt and jacket. He pushes them off his arms, just delicately enough not to tear anything. He makes short work of his pants and presses their bodies together.

He kisses him hard, having forgotten he’s made Aziraphale’s face prickly. It stings, but oh, his angel looks so cool. It’s okay, he can put up with it for a little while.

He’s about to ask, but Aziraphale knows what he’s looking for and wraps his legs around him, pulling him close. Crowley gives a tug to his corduroy pants (which he still finds ridiculous, just for the record). He pulls them just below his ass, allowing him to move. Then, he presses the tip of his cock to Aziraphale, hesitating.

The angel’s body is ready for him in the supernatural blink of an eye. “Come on now.” He tells him, and his voice has the power to calm down Crowley and shake him to his very core at the same time. The demon grits his teeth and slowly, ever so slowly, pushes in. It’s not a matter of comfort for either of them – he just wants to stay in every single moment before moving to the next.

“You feel wonderful.” Aziraphale purrs at him, and Crowley has to sink his nails into the sheets to regain some self-control. “You feel perfect.”

Crowley is reminded of a roller coaster he’s been on once. He doesn’t mind them; he likes the speed and the wind in his face. He finds it endlessly funny how the people around him scream even though they’re perfectly safe. Humans – so fascinating. The particular roller coaster he’s reminiscing about had a considerably sharp drop. He remembers looking down and flinching. Not just that, but, as it dropped, it also twisted around itself. So he found himself falling to the ground and being spun around at the same time.

That’s what Aziraphale does to him all the time, isn’t it? He doesn’t just turn him into a hungry animal, craving his touch, his praise, his smell. He also goes straight for the heartstrings, with no mercy at all. Aziraphale knows – Crowley didn’t fit in Heaven, didn’t fit in Hell. He fit nowhere at all, but here there’s this beautiful, kind angel, telling him he feels _perfect_ inside him.

It resonates because it’s true. He does feel exactly right when they’re together.

“Angel…” He begins to move over him, inside him. His movements are slow and deliberate, eyes darting to Aziraphale’s face to capture every and any change in his expression, trying his best to understand what feels good to his lover and do it again, and again, and again.

He notices his hair is getting in the angel’s face and stops for a second to try and gather it over a shoulder. He has no time to braid it right now, so this will have to do. He grabs one of Aziraphale’s legs behind the knee and presses it in, against his chest, drinking in the sound of the angel’s moans.

On his part, Aziraphale has trouble focusing on anything in particular; there is so much going on – his only fixed star, the demon’s yellow eyes burning right through him. The angel is never going to stop being surprised by the raw amount of love Crowley can radiate in his direction. Aziraphale’s opinion of himself is good, but not great. He’s full of doubts, has always been. He tries to do the right thing; he fails too often for his liking. He would like to be more confident, sure of what his place in this world is. But then Crowley looks at him _like that_ , and it’s just not love. It’s adoration, it’s complete acceptance. It’s _sometimes you drive me up a wall_ and _I’ve seen you at your worst_ , and _please never leave me again._ Aziraphale is sure Crowley never meant to come across as a sentimental wimp. But the demon’s love for his angel keeps pouring out of him despite himself, in a million gestures, big and small, in every word he says to him – even the angry ones. It’s a love that knows no doubt or question.

It’s a lot to take, but those six thousand years taught him to grow used to it, little by little. After all, Crowley is not just the only one to love him, but also the only one to be remotely nice to him. To worry about him, to watch over him. There’s a big void to fill in his heart, and it can house all of the demon’s love.

So they fit perfectly together on a level that is not physical at all. They can change their bodies in innumerable ways to reflect what’s going on between them. That’s why Aziraphale means a lot more than what he says when he tells his lover he feels wonderful, he feels perfect.

On a much, much baser plane, the angel pulls Crowley closer to him, fingers sinking into the demon’s shoulder, urging him to slam into him harder. As long as he’s sure that’s what his angel wants, Crowley doesn’t need to be asked twice. He presses his lips to the angel’s collarbone, sucks the skin against his teeth, leaves a very tiny mark on Aziraphale’s pale skin. _His_ angel. Then, he obliges to his lover’s request.

He feels the pressure building up with each thrust and wraps his fingers around the angel’s cock, determined to bring him down with him. Just when he thinks Aziraphale might be very close to getting there, the angel stops him.

“Wait—!” With a groan, and not without some trouble, Crowley stops.

“Are you o—”

“Switch?” Aziraphale asks, between laboured breaths. “Again?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up. Dear God, he’s so impressed with his angel right now. He’s always impressed when Aziraphale misbehaves, or tempts him into something scandalous.

He can’t help the smirk on his face as miracles away his pants. He leans down to tug at Aziraphale’s earlobe with his teeth. “ _Sure_ , angel.”

After that, it’s chaos. The Ancient Greeks defined Chaos as the abyss created by the separation of earth and sky. Chaos was the element to exist before anything else. Maybe it’s fit, then, that they’d return to chaos as they join and lose track of their limbs, lips, voices.

Aziraphale had some trouble voicing his request to switch again, but now that it’s been fulfilled, he’s completely speechless, overwhelmed by the feeling. Crowley’s body burns with desire, and if he stops and thinks that he has restrained himself from touching it for six thousand years he might go out of his mind.

Crowley’s is a body that appreciates anything that stings or burns. And the demon knows that about his physical form. So, as soon they switch, he moves a hand – Aziraphale’s hand, with black painted nails – to his lover’s thigh, scratching, leaving five long, deep red lines on his skin. Aziraphale, in Crowley’s body, gasps at the feeling, hands clutching the sheets on either side of his head just to have something to hold on to.

He would like to tell his demon he’s extraordinary. He would like to tell him he’s amazed at what he can make him feel. He would like to tell him, again, that he’s perfect. He might tell him later, though, because right now, as his lover keeps pushing in and out and in again, he can’t think straight, much less talk.

That’s fine with his demon, though, because he can hear and feel how much Aziraphale is enjoying this, and it’s intoxicating. It’s the wine, in small part, but it’s Aziraphale first and foremost. Making him lose sense of time and place, stripping him of any inhibition and hesitation, making his head spin, his ears ring and his heart ache.

There’s a tightening around his cock and Crowley presses an urgent moan against the Aziraphale’s (his own, actually) neck. He knows he’s not going to last long and can’t help it; it’s too much in every possible way.

“Angel…” He tries to warn him, but, just then, neither of them is able to hold up his side of the switch any longer. They swap back mere seconds before Aziraphale comes between them and Crowley comes inside him, bodies tensing against each other and then relaxing, panting, into each other’s arms.

In the silence that follows, neither of them moves. They can stay like this, just a little bit longer.

This is not the best time for this, but, as he’s done many times before, Aziraphale thinks about God. He has to wonder whether She can see them, whether She knows. Most importantly, whether She meant for this to happen. It feels too perfect to be a product of coincidence. But then again, what does he know? Maybe it is. How much more precious, then, that they have found each other.

Crowley pulls him right out of his philosophical thoughts. He props himself up on an elbow, his long hair cascading down his shoulders. He looks down at his angel, still catching his breath, a devilish smile on his face. “Anyway, where the hell did you learn to be so _creative_ , angel? Something they started teaching in Heaven after I left? Or did you pick this up on earth while I wasn’t looking?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale blushes, even though he has absolutely no right to. “Don’t be uncouth.”

“I—you—how—” Crowley opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a fish out of water. “ _Me_? After what you just—”

Aziraphale covers his mouth with a kiss, smiling into it. He knows, he knows, of course Crowley’s right. But there’s no need to say it out loud, now is there?

The demon slides slowly out of him; they’ve made quite the mess, so he miracles them clean. It’s nice to go and clean up like regular humans, there’s something quaint about it. But, right now, he just wants to drape himself over his angel, a leg between his thighs, and close his eyes.

They fall asleep like that, Aziraphale on his back and Crowley practically wrapped around him. It’s fair. Crowley might be the fast one between them, the one who sheds his past, time and again, the one who likes the wind in his face. But the angel is his center of gravity, the thing to keep him anchored to the here and now, and he’ll circle around him for the rest of time, whether it was meant to be like this, or not.

The happiness he feels in his chest as he lets out a breath that ruffles the angel’s hair – now that, that’s definitely not the wine.


End file.
